


silence in the empty rooms

by bluebabyicicle



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jerome Valeska is not the Joker, Mental Health Issues, My First AO3 Post, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Panic Attacks, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebabyicicle/pseuds/bluebabyicicle
Summary: "Jerome Valeska is dead!"I felt like I was drowning.





	silence in the empty rooms

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.

I was in the kitchen when it happened. I’d had a pounding headache all day and the noise that oaf Penguin had brought back was making in the dining room next door wasn’t helping. I could hear him quite clearly, sniffling and making pathetic sobbing noises whilst he drained my liquor cabinet, no doubt. I turned on the television set in the kitchen to drown out his pitiful snivelling and grabbed myself a glass from the cupboard, intending to take an aspirin. As I moved towards the sink I spotted, out of the corner of my eye, that there was some sort of emergency broadcast happening. These had been going on all day due to Jerome’s attack at the music festival and his hostage demands, so I wasn’t surprised, but I turned my attention towards it to find out what updates the gormless reporter had for everyone.  
  
“—interrupt your scheduled programme to bring you breaking news: we have just received word that the terrorist, Jerome Valeska, who orchestrated the hostage situation at the Gotham Music Festival today has been shot down by the Gotham City Police department. _Jerome Valeska is dead!_ ”

 _Jerome Valeska is dead._  
  
The glass slipped from my hand, shattering into a million tiny pieces as it hit the marble floor. I felt like I was drowning; the woman on the television was still talking but I could no longer understand what she was saying, my head was pounding even more than it had been previously, my vision was blurred, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs.  
  
My legs seemed to give out and I sank to the floor amongst the shards of glass.  
  
And then the noise started; a ragged, shaky screeching — like something out of a horror movie — filling the whole room. No matter which way I turned my head it seemed to be right there next to me. It was utterly inhuman and ever so slightly terrifying. I reached up to cover my ears, desperate to keep the noise out, but it made no difference. In the end I just curled into the foetal position, my eyes screwed up and my hands pressed tightly over my ears.  
  
I felt like I was going crazy.

 _I wish Jerome was here,_ I thought helplessly.  
  
From very far away, I thought I could hear someone shouting my name. I tried to look up but could still barely see. A shape came into view over me and something was pulling me up from the cold kitchen tiles, then lifting me bridal style. I tried to fight whoever it was; wriggling about in their arms and striking weakly at their broad chest, but to no avail. In the end I gave up and shut my eyes again. The screeching seemed to have stopped now, at least, and it felt like it was getting easier to breathe the farther away from the kitchen the mystery figure took me. I tried to align my breathing with their rhythmic, stomping footsteps, and eventually succeeded. After this I felt a little better, but kept my eyes shut all the same — my head was still pounding and I worried that, if I opened them, everything would still be a blur. I let the person carry me through doors and up flights of stairs, until suddenly I was ungraciously dumped onto a mattress.  
  
This movement was so unexpected that my eyes snapped open immediately to stare at the man who had plonked me so unceremoniously onto what appeared to be mine and Jer— _my_ bed.  
  
Of course it was Butch. Who else could it have been? I should have noticed the _smell_ sooner, to be honest. I wrinkled my nose as I glared up at his ugly face.  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said flippantly, sinking into _Jerome’s favourite armchair_.  
  
Feeling like my voice wouldn’t work if I tried to shout at him, I looked around for something in reach that I could throw at him; I normally kept quite a few knives on my bedside table but it looked like Jerome had taken them with him — _not that they had done him any good,_ my brain needlessly provided, “You feeling any better now?” Butch asked, concern evident in his deep voice, but God knows why.  
  
I looked at him blankly, “No,” I tried to say, but my throat burned and I immediately grasped at my neck, hissing in pain.  
  
“Yeah, your throat probably will hurt after all that screaming you did,” Butch said, getting up to pour a glass of water and pass it to me. I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding when he didn’t immediately go back to sit in J’s chair. He just stood there, looking at me with a mix of worry and pity on his face. I _hated_ it.  
  
After downing a pint of water my throat felt a little better, “ _What?_ ” I snapped, thrusting the empty glass back into his hand.  
  
“That screaming noise you were making. It was awful,” he said nervously, clearly intimidated by me — _well, so he should be,_ “Truly horrific, if I’m honest. I mean, I heard that glass shatter and assumed you’d just knocked something over, but then that screaming started, and I thought you must’ve hurt yourself really bad.”  
  
_Ahhh. Right. Well, I guess in hindsight that noise had obviously been coming from me._  
  
“Then, obviously, I realised what had actually happened…” he trailed off awkwardly, looking anywhere but at me.  
  
I didn’t know whether I wanted to punch him or burst into tears. Neither was an option, really; obviously I wasn’t about to cry in front of some random swamp monster — or anyone, for that matter. I didn’t wanna show any more weakness than I already had, but I felt like I needed to blow off steam somehow. However, I felt weak and shaky after my episode in the kitchen and thought I would probably do more damage to myself than him if I tried anything. Plus, some weird little rational part of me was insisting that he _hadn’t actually done anything wrong_ — like that had ever prevented me from hurting people before, especially if it helped ease my own pain.  
  
Instead, without really thinking, I blurted out, ”Did you hear what it said? After…? I didn’t— I couldn’t… _Who did it?_ ”  
  
_So much for not showing weakness._  
  
“Jim Gordon,” he replied simply, as if it was obvious — which, to be fair, it kinda was — before continuing, “Gordon shot Valeska multiple times and then Valeska fell from the roof of a building. Apparently Gordon tried to save him but I don’t know if there’s any truth to that.”  
  
_Gotham’s hero cop strikes again,_ I thought bitterly, “I highly doubt it,” I spat venomously, “Jim Gordon is a fucking piece of scum; he’s as dirty as any other cop in Gotham, he just acts like he’s better than the rest of them and for some reason the idiots who live in this shithole city buy it.”  
  
“Couldn’t agree more, doll,” the word echoed in my head as soon as it left his mouth. _Doll._ The amount of times I had heard the same word uttered by Jerome; whether we were fucking, or fighting, or even the rare occasion where he was being affectionate (usually when he wanted something), it was always _doll_ this, _doll_ that. It made me feel physically sick to hear someone else call me that.  
  
“ _Don’t_ use that word,” I snarled, anger and disgust evident in my voice.  
  
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Butch exclaimed almost before I’d finished speaking — I suppose even someone like him, who’d only been in the house a day, would have had heard Jerome refer to me as that multiple times — clearly he’d realised the mistake he’d made. He gave me that _pitying_ look again and opened his mouth to say something I _knew_ I wouldn’t want to hear, “Look, I didn’t really know the guy, and he seemed like a psycho to me. Well, er, to everyone really— he kinda _was_ a psycho. But you obviously loved him a lot… I know how that feels,” He said sadly, “If you ever need to talk to—”  
  
“Get out,” I said, with as much force as I could muster, cutting off what I assumed was going to be a rambling and uninteresting glimpse into Butch’s love life — or, rather, lack thereof.  
  
“Are you sure? I don’t really think you should be alone right now and no one else has come back from—”  
  
_Sure?_ Of _course_ I was sure! I barely even knew the guy and I was sick of his smell, I was sick of his ugly ass face, and I was sick of his _fucking_ pity. All I wanted was to be alone. If only I had my _fucking_ knives.  
  
“I don’t need anyone. Now get _out!_ ”  
  
“Alright, alright, I’m leaving,” he said, holding his hands up, “But I meant what I said, if you ever need to talk…”  
  
I was too exhausted to even bother replying and just turned away from him, burying my head amongst the pillows as I heard him back out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind himself. I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of Jerome that was still left on the bedding, and finally the last thread holding me together snapped and I was sobbing uncontrollably; the tears filling my eyes and spilling down onto my cheeks in endless streams.  
  
When Jerome had left that morning I didn’t even question whether he would return. I had thought, like many had, that he was invincible; risen from the dead to lead his faithful crazy followers to conquer Gotham. I had never thought for a minute that his plan would fail. That I would be left alone.  
  
I lay there for what seemed like an eternity, crying until I had nothing left to cry — it hadn’t helped though; I had never felt such an intense sadness in my entire life. I felt like there was a hole in my chest that I would never be able to fill.  
  
‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved’? What a load of bollocks. Before I met J I felt nothing for anyone, and I was fine living like that. People meant nothing to me and I got on with my life — I was perfectly content. Then I met him and my life was turned upside down. When I was with him he made me feel things I had never felt before — I’d never known what it felt like to be truly happy before I met him. But now he was gone, and I would never feel that again. And where, before Jerome, there had only been constant apathy, now there was constant sadness and _pain_. And that was _so much worse_. So no, I would have been happier to have never loved.  
  
Jerome was the only person in the world I had cared about, and now he was gone. _Jerome was gone._ After all his bullshit demands and threats that I never leave him, in the end, _he_ had been the one to leave _me_.  
  
_No_ … Jim Gordon had _taken_ him from me.  
  
My rational side was telling me that Gordon was just doing his job; Jerome had done irredeemable harm to Gotham — purely because he felt like creating chaos — but I had never cared for the city anyway. I knew Jerome was not a good person but he had _always_ been good to me, and I had loved him despite his craziness. I had never been interested in Jerome’s plan to bring down Gotham, I had always just let him get on with it. All I had wanted before was to survive, but you know what they say — you could go insane with just one bad day.

Jerome was my once in a lifetime chance at love and Jim Gordon had taken that away from me. So, for that, I was going to make sure he paid dearly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it!  
> Might write a prequel if anyone likes this.  
> Please leave a comment! I would really love to know your thoughts x


End file.
